


Kiss and Makeup

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Makeup, Misunderstandings, Perfume
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cmcross prompted: "THIS IS A DRIVE BY PROMPT! WARNING! THIS IS A DRIVE BY PROMPT! Sherstrade. Cologne (or perfume. Same thing.)"</p><p>Greg has a secret. Rated PG for adults being in love and attracted to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss and Makeup

When Sherlock comes into Greg's flat and embraces him, he stiffens at the smell of perfume and his mind, bless it and curse it, draws the wrong conclusions because, despite his efforts, it's a rather impulsive mind, and he has a lack of data due to it being his first relationship. "Perfume," he says, stricken, pulling away and staring. It smells nice, actually, not too cloying, and there isn't too much of it, and it oddly suits Greg's scent, but...there's a woman who probably suits _Greg_  out there who probably wears plenty of perfume and Sherlock _knew_ this would happen if he ever started a relationship.

Sherlock doesn't expect his nice things to last usually, so he's not sure why he'd thought this one might.

Honestly, who would want to stay loyal to Sherlock? He's hard to live with, which is why he still lives with John and didn't even attempt live with Greg despite Greg asking, but perhaps if he'd decided to come and stay with Greg he could have prevented Greg branching out and embracing the woman who owned the perfume that smelled so oddly nice.

Greg chews at his lip. "Yeah, see...that's the thing."

Sherlock pulls away, which is both the last thing he wants to do and the only thing he wants to do. He does his best to look uncaring as he heads for the kitchen, getting himself a beer and taking a swig. He tends not to go for beer, but alcohol's going to be required and it's what was on hand. "A minute, Lestrade," he snaps.

Greg looks down at the floor. "Right. Sorry. Er." He gets himself a beer of his own. Sherlock is glad to know he won't be the only one feeling out-of-sorts, or the only one drinking.

Sherlock runs his mind over what he could have done differently. Living with Greg, that was one thing he could have changed. He'd opted to stay with John, but perhaps that had been wrong. Living with Greg would have led to a proper break-up over some fight about his experiments or his violin playing. 

"Okay, we've had a bit of a drink now," Greg finally says. Sherlock nods in agreement, but won't look at him. "Follow me to the bedroom," Greg says quietly. It's a polite request, but Sherlock knows refusing will only set the fire under whatever is happening to low heat, it won't turn off the burner entirely.

"Why?" Sherlock asks as he drinks a bit more. He suddenly has a low, aching suspicion when Greg shines one of his nervous smiles and shrugs.

"You'll have to find out," Greg says, and Sherlock is guts-pullingly terrified.

Sherlock can see her now, in his horrible mind's eye. Some woman, sitting on the edge of Greg's bed, or worse, lying on top of it where she doesn't belong, where Sherlock and Greg and no one else belong, where her very presence is going to necessitate changing the bedding. Or...oh, dear God, precious God, no! Perhaps she's naked. Imagine she's _ready_ and _waiting_. Sherlock sets the bottle of beer down with a clink and runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at the curls in an unspoken plea. 

Perhaps if he'd taken more care with his appearance? Mycroft told him the tight shirts and trousers looked silly, and he'd never believed him. What a fool he'd been! Now look what had happened, he was going to have to lose Greg over some woman who wore too much perfume!

"I'm not interested in a threesome," Sherlock bites out with a flashing glare. Really, the entire concept is a bit of a shock. He'd been under the impression that Greg had had similar tastes in the frequency of sex to himself (being, in this case, not frequent). If Greg had been unsatisfied, he should have said something! What a coward, what an utterly brainless little Yard-bred coward.

No. No, though. It was Sherlock's fault. He'd assumed. He'd really just thought he was reading Greg right, but it's always harder to read people the closer you get to them, like having your nose pressed right against the page you're trying to study.

Sherlock isn't cut out for relationships. He can't hack it. He'd thought that would be the case, and it stings to be proven right sometimes, it stings like wasps and needles and riding crops he isn't wielding. 

Greg pauses, looking at Sherlock with confusion. He seems to cautiously take the statement as a joke. "Neither am I," he says. "What, exactly, do you mean by that?" 

Perhaps Sherlock could have "put out" more. Or he could have made Greg his coffee a few times more, or tidied up a bit, or not stored extra thumbs in his freezer.

Too late now, it would seem. Sherlock doesn't give Greg the satisfaction of the deductions he's made about the woman's presence. He'll probably burst into ridiculous tears if he tries, going by the scratchiness in his throat and the prickling in his eyes.

After their final fateful steps, Sherlock finds there's no woman in the bedroom, and he can't quite figure out why. Perhaps she's waiting in a car on the street. 

Greg nods to the bed. "Have a seat," he instructs, releasing Sherlock's hand. Greg still smells of perfume.

Sherlock suddenly wonders if he's being treated to a last meal of sorts. One last go. Or, alternately, perhaps it's one last chance for Sherlock to prove himself before things end, like a test.

Or maybe Greg's only stuck Sherlock there on the bed to break up with him because fewer items can be used as weapons in the sparsely-decorated bedroom than in the rest of the house.

Sherlock could never hurt Greg anyway, but perhaps Greg is like the rest of the boring world when it comes to picturing Sherlock as a violent man. It would really be a fitting twist of the knife.

Greg slips out of the room, and Sherlock is very confused again. He occupies himself with looking around and imagining just what havoc he could wreak with the objects at hand. Lamp is obvious. He could probably detach the rod for the hangers, most of which are plastic but a couple of which are metal and would make effective weapons indeed, if Greg hasn't anticipated that and binned them, though Sherlock doesn't think he has.

Sherlock starts to systematically hate everything about Greg's room, which is much more convenient than preserving the happy memories and letting them prevail.

Greg opens the door again, stands a bit awkwardly in the doorway. Sherlock blinks, shakes his head slightly, and blinks again for good measure. But, no, Greg's really there, and he's in a dress.

"What," Sherlock says with trembling lips and eyes that _don't understand_ , "is even happening right now, Lestrade?!"

Greg takes a cautious step back and looks down at the dress—blue and not the cheapest he could find but certainly nothing classy enough to be expensive, an alright fit though—and smooths it out a little to give twitchy, nervous fingers something to do. "Suppose I could've warned you," he murmurs.

He's wearing makeup, Sherlock registers. It's inexpert, but, really, it does still enhance. He frowns. "Greg, what...?" He's reduced to that, doesn't know where that mind that apparently jumped to conclusions that were way off-base, doesn't know where that thing that...that thing in his head he curses and blesses has gone.

Sherlock flops suddenly backward and stares up at the boring ceiling, not needing the strange new visual stimulus of his...still his boyfriend, right???...standing there in a blue dress, all made up...to distract him as he takes himself back through the reasoning of earlier, erasing his mental path. He pulls out the stitches he'd made in his haste, leaving little holes behind that will pull together if he leaves them be.

Greg slowly starts to walk back toward the toilet. Sherlock barely registers this for a moment, figuring Greg will go get something else, some new surprise to confuse Sherlock. He's not known Greg to be very embarrassed about things of a sexual nature. 

Finally, Sherlock sits up, deciding Greg is owed an apology, but not sure whether to offer it or not. Perhaps revealing what he'd thought about the perfume would upset Greg. People don't like to be doubted.

No, he'll let him know. It's Greg. And he and the rest of Sherlock's...friends...seem to like when he's wrong. 

The toilet door is locked. Sherlock knocks. "Greg?"

"It's okay," Greg says sharply. "Go back and wait, yeah? I'm fixing it. No worries!"

Oh, Greg. Greg is obviously having a freakout of his own. "Fixing what?" Sherlock asks gently.

"...Me!" Greg supplies with a bit of a squeak, and Sherlock knocks again, more insistently.

"You're perfect, don't change a thing," he murmurs to Greg with a quirk of his lip. "You look...."

"So stupid." The resigned tone causes Sherlock to swallow and shake his head, even though Greg has no way of seeing him. "Look, please, don't. I don't want to hear it, I so don't need this right now."

"I like the look," Sherlock says, resting his cheek against the door. "Greg. Love...please."

"You couldn't even look at me!"

"I was mad at myself," admits Sherlock. "I, er. The perfume."

"You hate it," Greg says with quiet, you've-crushed-me-and-I-deserve-it-and-am-sorry understanding. It's so Greg.

"Love it, actually. I'd just thought it came from another woman."

Something gets knocked over with a clink. Greg suddenly laughs at the unexpected turn. "My God, Sherlock, really?"

Sherlock bites his lip, pulling his face away from the door. "Yes. Thought you wanted to break up, or else have some sort of a threesome."

"Never!" Greg bursts out. Suddenly, the doorknob turns, and there's Greg's face, the makeup half scrubbed away. "You're the one for me. Really." He beams at Sherlock, though clearly he's been crying, and Sherlock pushes the door open a bit more, enters the small toilet, hugs Greg close, rubbing gently at his back.

"I leapt to conclusions," Sherlock says. He sighs, grateful things are clear but upset that he'd doubted their connection so easily.

"Well, isn't this your first relationship?" Greg reminds.

"Yes," Sherlock says. He turns Greg a bit, tilts his head so he's looking himself straight on in the mirror. "You don't look half bad, you know."

"You don't have to lie to me," Greg says in reassurance. "If there's anyone you don't have to play nice with, it's me." Sherlock feels something pull at his guts again. Greg is often down on his appearance and general appeal. He underestimates himself in certain areas to nearly laughable degrees.

"I'm going to do your makeup," Sherlock says with casual finality.

Greg stares at his own reflection, jaw dropping open, lips still a bit stained with lipstick.

"I can play nice if I want to," Sherlock says with a bit of offense. "I really do admire your features. Let's go ahead and enhance them. I'll show you what to do."

"You don't have to," Greg says quickly, actually reaching out and starting to put the lids back on things.

"Oh, perhaps you weren't listening," Sherlock tells Greg's reflection, which is looking at the makeup products on the workspace and decidedly not up at Sherlock. They're cheap ones, but they'll do, especially since the color choices actually aren't terrible. Sherlock wonders if Greg ever did any of this with Linda, deciding ultimately that he doesn't really care at the moment, though he might ask later. "I _will_ show you what to do."

There are stars in Greg's eyes when he shifts around and looks up at Sherlock. 

"Greg, I love you," Sherlock says with a nervous urgency he's never let himself say it with before. "I love you, and I don't know why you think a _dress_ is going to ruin that. You'd waited a long time to tell me, I see. You're so nervous you're shaking." Sherlock cups Greg's cheek, stroking it gently. "Don't ever be afraid of me. Where you're concerned," he admits with a swallow, "my bark is all that I have."

Greg flushes and slowly starts to beam again. He wraps his arms around Sherlock. "Thank you," he whispers as they embrace.

"You have a great nose, and great sense for color." Suddenly, Sherlock pauses, a sudden thought coming to him. Color! "Did Mrs Hudson help you?"

"Yes, actually." Greg nuzzles Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock strokes his hair. 

"If you don't want to, I won't press," Sherlock says. "Trust me, though, it won't be some chore. You're...downright gorgeous," he says, wincing as he admits it.

Greg chuckles. "Say it again."

"You're gorgeous," Sherlock says, gently pulling away. "There's better lighting in the kitchen. Let me work on you."

"You can't tell anyone," Greg says with a sudden nervousness. "Seriously." He's actually shaking a bit more than he was before, and Sherlock's heart breaks a little for him, for his secrets society would give him hell for.

"As long as you don't tell anyone I've got a flair with a makeup brush, I'd say we're even," Sherlock smirks.

Greg pulls him in for a furious, possibly cinnamon lipstick-tinged kiss. "No, I won't tell anyone," he says, breathless. "It'd make the girls all jealous."

"You know, you actually smell rather good. I'm going to devour you," Sherlock purrs, pausing to watch Greg flush and squirm at the idea. "Makeup first, though." 

"Right," Greg says. "Let's do it."

"Kitchen."

Greg pushes past Sherlock and out of the toilet, finding his favorite spot at the table, and Sherlock soon follows with the supplies, taking deliberate steps so as not to betray how very much he approves of the odd turn in the situation. 

"You really trust me to do this, then," Sherlock says with amusement, wondering at Greg's trust in him, at his devotion.

"Yes, I do." 

Sherlock feels his heart warm at that, feels it open up and start to bask in Greg's light once more, as if the perfume scare earlier had no lasting effect on their relationship except possibly to aid it, like manure fertilizing a prize-winning flower. Sherlock sets deftly to work, turning Greg's face here and there with gentle, guiding touches. He only breaks the silence to ask, once Greg seems comfortable, "Do we have sex enough for you?"

"Yes, Sherlock," Greg says, with a hint of suspicion, but enjoying himself too much to get too upset. As an afterthought, he asks, "And you?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. 

"Yeah. Good, then." Greg shrugs shoulders enhanced by the color and shape of the dress. "I guess we're just...easy to satisfy."

Sherlock doesn't reply, caught up in his artistry. 

"Sherlock?" Greg asks when Sherlock just seems to be staring at him. "Was that wrong to say, the being easy to satisfy thing?"

"What?" asks Sherlock, thinking back. He shakes his head. "No," he assures Greg. "No, that's just it, really. We're not usually...interested, really. But, now and then, it's more than good, wouldn't you say?" He meets Greg's eyes with a hint of nervousness.

"The best," Greg says. He smiles at Sherlock softly in that way that Sherlock is coming to recognize as his I'm-happier-without-Linda-and-that's-bittersweet expression, followed by a brighter one that must mean something like damn-if-Sherlock's-not-the-greatest.

"Tonight, though, is definitely going to be a...satisfaction night?" Sherlock asks carefully. 

"Oh," Greg says, his gaze warmly sexual and dangerous and so sincere, "definitely, Mr Holmes." 

Sherlock's hand darts out in offering. Greg accepts it easily, and Sherlock takes Greg back to the bedroom, allowing him to gaze into the small mirror on the wall.

"Oh wow!" praises Greg. He touches his face gently, like it might break if he isn't wary. "Wow, Sherlock! Thank you!"

"It's _your_ face," Sherlock points out in amusement. "I only enhanced it. I could probably alter that dress a bit too."

"You sew?!" Greg turns round on the spot, smoothing out his dress again.

Sherlock swallows at the beauty of Greg, a thing apparent no matter what he wears. His excitement lights him up, causes Sherlock to fall into his gaze, to admire his cheeks and that brilliant smile that still has women half Lestrade's age secretly swooning, not that he usually takes notice.

Sherlock means to say something witty about all the skills he has that could impress Greg, that Greg could hardly even dream of, but instead all he says is a breathless, "I adore you."

He's not too upset at his apparent inability to play it cool. After all, he gets an even bigger smile for the statement.


End file.
